


Rise to Me

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: How novel, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Other, POV Sam Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, There's a woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a look at Sam's morning routine- waking up, going for a run, taking a little time for himself before Dean wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title and soundtrack both [Rise to Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4LfzxI07q4) by the Decemberists. It's a coincidental pun and the worst kind of double-entendre. 
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> Trigger warning: I did something a little unconventional and had Sam masturbate while imagining himself with a woman. I know, it's weird and perverted, but that's just the mood I was in. I thought really hard about whether to do it. If it squicks you, don't read.

 

Dean was asleep when Sam woke up, and that was a blessing. Dean hadn’t been sleeping all that much lately.

Lately. Ha.

Sam dressed silently, pulling on a loose jersey shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He dug his sneakers out of his duffel, putting them on over a pair of dark FBI-suit socks because he couldn’t find the other kind and, on a slightly more nuanced note, fuck it. Turning the lights on wasn’t worth waking Dean.

He grabbed the room key and snuck out the door, closing it with the doorknob turned so the ‘click’ wouldn’t wake his brother. Ever since hell, Dean had a tendency to wake up quickly and go for his gun. Sam wasn’t worried he’d get shot, but once that happened, Dean never went back to sleep.

The sun was just beginning to come up, and the world had that pale grey tint it got in the dead hours of the morning. The parking lot was empty and birds were singing and it was just chilly enough that Sam considered going back for a sweater. He glanced at the door and thought of Dean and decided against it.

He’d warm up once he got going, anyway.

The motel was just off the main route, and the early hour meant the road was empty. Sam liked that. It meant he could run on the pavement, rather than the shoulder. They’d stopped in the middle of Nebraska, which meant the road was flat and straight and empty. He ran facing into traffic, and if a car approached, he’d have about twenty minutes to get out of the way.

Sam rolled his shoulders once, stretching them out, and then he ran.

Sam didn’t run for cardio. He wasn’t jogging.

Sam ran like he was running for his life.

The impact of his feet on the pavement jarred up his body, and he pushed himself faster. His blood began roaring in his ears, the _thump-thump_ of his heart matching up with the _thump-thump_ of his feet.

Sam was used to running. At Stanford, he’d been part of a group that got up in the morning and jogged around campus. He knew the kind of exhaustion most people were used to- when breathing felt like swallowing knives and it felt like there was cotton thread stitching your obliques together and your calves and thighs threatened to give out and dump you onto the pavement. That’s when most people stopped, bent over with their hands on their knees, muttering ‘go on, I’ll catch up’ in between heavy breaths.

Sam didn’t stop. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much his body screamed at him to stop, he pushed forward because he knew that eventually, a day would come when stopping meant dying. On that day someone might be depending on him, and so he pushed forward, no matter how badly it hurt.

Specks of black began to form on the outsides of his vision and Sam focused on his breathing, drawing in gulps of air that felt like acid in his lungs.

He set his sight on a yellow sign in the distance. He’d get there, and then he’d walk back.

Get there, walk back.

Get there. Walk back.

_Thump-thump._

It became a mantra, one he repeated in his mind to push himself forward. He matched the rhythm to the sound of his feet on the pavement.

Get-there-walk-back

Get-there-walk-back

Get-there-walk-back

He closed his eyes, breathing deep, forcing himself not to slow down.

The day would come when he would need this.

Get-there-walk-back

Get-there-walk-back

Someone would depend on him, and he’d need to be able to push through.

Nobody needed his excuses.

Get-there-walk-back

Get-there-

He opened his eyes and found that he’d passed it.

 

The key was a physical one, not a card, so Sam was able to get back inside without even the _beep_ which came from an electric lock.  

Dean was still asleep, so Sam crossed the room and closed the bathroom door before even taking his shoes off.

His shirt was soaked through and his hair was sticking to his face in wet strands. He ran his fingers through it, pushing it out of his eyes.

He turned the shower on and undressed, his clothes damp on his sweaty skin. He found a dry spot on his shirt and wiped the sweat off his face.

The single-use soap was still in its wrapper, probably because it was ‘cucumber-melon’ scented and Dean would rather swallow glass. Sam didn’t care what he smelled like.

The water was almost hot and Sam stepped under the stream, letting it sluice over his sticky skin. It warmed as he stood under it, head tilted back, letting it soak into his hair and run over his face.

There weren’t a lot of things in Sam’s life that felt good, really good, but this was one of them.

The washcloth was one of the scratchy cheap ones that every motel in the country bought from the same source. That suited Sam fine. The soft kind cost more and weren’t worth a damn when it came to scrubbing blood and ectoplasm off your skin.

He worked the soap into the cloth, letting it lather. He found he actually liked the smell. More than the smell of his own skin, anyway.

He scrubbed the cloth over his shoulders and chest and neck, letting the water carry the bubbles down over his body. They trickled over the planes of his abs, catching up in the hair of his groin and legs.

The bottle of shampoo was likewise unopened. Dean didn’t use shampoo; he washed his hair with the same bar of irish spring he used on everything else.

Sam ribbed him about it, but not too hard. It was nice having the whole bottle to himself.

He rubbed it into his hair, fingers digging deep into his scalp, rubbing little circles behind his ears. He could feel the suds running down his back and over his ass, and he toyed with the idea of masturbating.

Dean was still asleep and they had nowhere particular to be. No reason not to.

His dick was showing considerable interest in this line of thought. He looked down at it while lathering up the washcloth again. This time, he took his time sliding it over his thighs and calves. Down the outside, up the inside. Down the front, up the back. And once more for good measure.

Yeah, he was masturbating.

He ditched the washcloth, reaching between his legs and cupping his balls with soap-slick fingers. He spread his legs slightly, bracing his hand against the plastic wall. The hot water pounded onto his back, running down his spine, and he shivered, biting his lip.

He cast around for a fantasy, a memory, and landed on a woman he’d seen on the last case. Blonde, curvy, just his type. Green eyes and thick eyelashes. Yeah.

He stroked his cock and imagined she was here with him, on her knees, looking up at him while she licked the head of his dick.

His fingers were slick around his shaft, moving slowly as he imagined her sucking, taking his length into her throat. He imagined drops of water forming on the peaks of her nipples. He imagined lapping them off, cupping her breasts as his mouth moved from one to the other.

He slid his thumb along the slit, twisting slightly on the upstroke, and imagined burying himself in her. She’d be pinned against the wall, her legs around his waist, her hands in his hair as they kissed. He’d be kneading the globes of her ass, holding her up as he buried himself in her soaked pussy.

He stroked faster, imagining himself balls-deep in her body, pounding into her as she cried out in ecstasy. Her legs tightened around him, her whole body holding him tight, and then she came with a gasp and he spilled into his fist, gritting his teeth to keep back a groan.

The shower washed his come away, destroying the evidence. He turned once, giving himself a perfunctory final rinse, and then he shut off the water.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt here.](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/107745.html?thread=40730849#t40730849)
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> "Just Sam, getting up in the morning, going for a run, coming back, having a shower, touching himself all over."
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> _Nailed it._
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> Wrote this one while I work out all the fucking feelings I'm having about "On Sale." Don't tell the readers on that story that I'm procrastinating. I'll have a Misery situation on my hands. 
> 
> After this I only have twenty two other prompts bookmarked for possible fills. Big shoutout to the Session Manager plugin for Chrome, you da real MVP. 
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End file.
